Charley possessed distinguished merits as a man; he was not to be
too hastily disposed of, even for his own good. She viewed him
in his various aspects, his character and disposition came under
her critical survey. Nature had given the young planter a
handsome presence; wealth and position had come to him as
fortuitously. The first of these was no great matter, perhaps;
Betty herself was sometimes burdened with a sense of possession,
but family was indispensable.

In theory, at least, she was a thoroughgoing little aristocrat.
A gentleman was always a gentleman. There were exceptions, like
Tom, to be sure, but even Tom could have reached up and seized
the title had he coveted it. She rarely forgot that she was the
mistress of Belle Plain and a Malroy. Just wherein a Malroy
differed from the rest of the sons of men she had never paused to
consider, it sufficed that there was a hazy Malroy genealogy that
went back to tidewater Virginia, and then if one were not meanly
curious, and would skip a generation or two that could not be
accounted for in ways any Malroy would accept, one might
triumphantly follow the family to a red-roofed Sussex manor
house. Altogether, it was a highly satisfactory genealogy and it
had Betty's entire faith. The Nortons were every bit as good as
the Malroys, which was saying a great deal. Their history was
quite as pretentious, quite as vague, and as hopelessly involved
in the mists of tradition.

Inexplicably enough, Betty found that her thoughts had wandered
to Carrington; which was very singular, as she had long since
formed a resolution not to think of him at all. Yet she
remembered with satisfaction his manner that afternoon, it left